


Murder's Not A Hobby For The Cautious

by quwinto



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, the assassin au that became a pretending to be boyfriends au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quwinto/pseuds/quwinto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thoughts of violence can make the timid nauseous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murder's Not A Hobby For The Cautious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jimkirkk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimkirkk/gifts).



> This is trash and I'm trash and if you're reading this AJ, you're trash for suggesting this to me.   
> Love ya.

Tybalt knows his habit of chewing gum gets on people’s nerves. He snaps bubbles when they tell him about the targets and when he cleans his guns. What a shame he can’t chew gum when he’s out on missions; it might alert people to his presence. Otherwise, Tybalt is constantly blowing bubbles and snapping them in perfected defiance. He favors pistols over any other weapon, enjoying the way the cold steel fits in his hand and the smell of the bullet leaving its chamber and ripping through flesh. His murder happy trigger finger has gotten him into trouble at times, but the people up top can’t reprimand him too severely, for his has nothing left to lose but his life and he’s more than a trifle faster than any other of the group’s “employees.” He wears this knowledge in every sly smile and “yes sir” and bubblegum pop.

 

Sometimes Mercutio thinks he might be in the wrong business. Murder for sport is more fun than murdering for money, but everyone has bills to pay. Mercutio’s hands are marred with little nicks from years of knife handling, and he rather dislikes the noise bullets make. Guns are too impersonal, too sloppy, too boring. One shot and you’re done. Knives are trickier, but much more interesting. Mercutio can name all the parts of the body where a well placed stab is fatal and what’s more, he can reach all of them in a blink. He always has one in hand, and it’s never still, dancing, twirling, slipping in and out of skin.

 

Tybalt dislikes being assigned to work with anyone, much less someone who finds it necessary to chat. And of course, the other assassin just has to be a knife wielder. Mercutio talks nearly non-stop, making Tybalt’s hands itch and drift toward his gun’s holster. The elevator is not that small and yet Mercutio insists upon standing too close to Tybalt. He draws his pistol as Mercutio takes a breath and the muzzle of the gun is pressed at his throat before another word can slip out.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d kindly shut up,” he drawls, eyes flicking to Mercutio’s indignant expression.

“So you’re from Jersey, then?” Mercutio teases despite the fact that Tybalt could dispatch him at any second. Tybalt’s expression darkens and Mercutio grins.

“You look it. With that crucifix and complexion, I’d be surprised if you said you grew up anywhere else.”

“Shut up.”

“Just when you’ve finally started talking? Never, dear Tybalt.”

“I will blow your throat out if you don’t stop talking right now.”

“You’d do that to me? Really? I doubt they’ll let you off easily for killing their favorite knife juggler.” He winks, smiling at his own joke.

Tybalt snaps a bubble and reholsters his pistol, folding his arms across his chest and scowling. Mercutio counts it as a victory.

 

Mercutio is watching someone burble out their last breath through the knife lodged in their throat when a shot rings out right behind his head and he snaps around to see a man on the ground behind him and Tybalt lowering his gun.

“You said you could handle the upstairs,” Tybalt begins--

“And I did. Until you decided to intervene so rudely,” Mercutio interrupts--

“You would’ve had a knife in the back if I hadn’t come up. This job isn’t a game. You can't stand idly and watch it play out,” Tybalt spits, no doubt angry he had to waste a bullet on someone Mercutio should’ve killed. He moves past Mercutio to the sputtering person pinned to the wall, wrenches the knife out and drives it up through the person’s chin. He lets go, and the man slumps to the ground.

“Stop dicking around and do your job.” Tybalt slams a door open, and Mercutio finds himself studying the gunman’s thighs instead of making sure no one is still alive.

 

Tybalt never pays much attention to who he’s killing, just enough to know when they’re dead. Who cares if it’s a political leader or a drug dealer, just so long as he gets paid for his work.

 

Mercutio likes collecting tokens of success. So far he’s got three dog tags, seven crosses, two earrings, and one jeweled dagger. He takes them when he’s got the person pinned, one hand digging a blade into their chest, a sadistic smile painted on his face. No matter how many times he thinks about taking a trophy from Tybalt, he reminds himself that he doesn’t take trophies unless 1) he’s killing them or 2) the trophy is given to him. So instead he antagonizes Tybalt with every coy smile and tries to flirt past Tybalt’s cold skin.

 

After seven missions and seventeen months of working with Mercutio, Tybalt is nearly at his wit’s end. Their skills are perfect complements to each other; he knows that. But Mercutio’s insufferable chatter, his insistence upon throwing out flirtatious comments and winks in Tybalt’s direction are starting to wear at the gunman’s sanity. He chain smokes, but that doesn’t drown out Mercutio’s voice. Trying to ignore him doesn’t work because he’ll get progressively closer and louder if ignored. Tybalt’s had his finger on the trigger with the gun pressed against Mercutio too many times to count, but he’s never fired a shot toward the other assassin. Mercutio teases that it’s because Tybalt’s grown fond of him, when it’s nothing but cold hearted professionalism and necessity. Their organization needs Mercutio’s skills, so Tybalt is not allowed to kill him. That’s what he tells himself.

 

Tybalt hates undercover work. He prefers for others to fetch the information. He’ s more comfortable actually getting his hands dirty rather than pretending to be someone he’s not and digging for intel. But there’s no one available. So he and Mercutio have to pose as a couple. A couple. He picks up something blindly in the room and whips it at the wall, hearing a satisfying shatter as it makes impact.

 

“So, are we gonna parade around town arm in arm and then fuck so loud the neighbors hear?”

“Shut up.”

“Tybalt, you have to at least make an effort. This shit is important.”

“I don’t care.”

Every word that comes out of Mercutio’s mouth makes Tybalt want to kick him in the face, but he has to crush those thoughts and smile back at him, flirt back, not grind his teeth, and pretend to be in love with his least favorite person on the planet. 

At least Mercutio has the decency not to invade Tybalt’s space while they’re trying to sleep. In the apartment, with the blinds drawn, he keeps his normal distance. That is to say, he chatters and jokes but he doesn’t try to touch Tybalt.   
In public, they have to constantly be touching; they’re pretending to be in love, after all. Tybalt tries not to think about it, but it makes his skin itch every time they hold hands or wraps arms around each other or kiss.

It’s a relief when they finally find the base in the area. They can stop pretending and kill everyone and go back to their normal relationship. Professional relationship, Tybalt amends in his thoughts.

They climb through a window in the night and clear the building. Tybalt can see the excitement in Mercutio as he twirls the knives in his hands and grins in the darkness, and Tybalt’s blood sings as he takes out his gun, finally, finally.

 

They go back to the apartment to clean up. Tybalt unlocks the door as Mercutio talks rapid fire behind him.

“Oh God, that was so great. That was so great. I missed how much fun killing is. Next time we have to go undercover we should skip all the pretending and just raid every house until we find what we’re looking for. It’d be so much more fun.”

“That is the stupidest thing that has ever come out of your stupid mouth.” Tybalt still has adrenaline pumping through his veins, and the words carry more than his usual amount of venom.

“Sorry for liking fun, asshole. Take that stick out of your ass soon or it’s gonna start to hurt.” Mercutio snaps back.

Tybalt reaches behind him and fists a hand in Mercutio’s bloodstained shirt to swing the assassin around to face him.   
“We’re supposed to be a secret organization. Killing civilians would just get us all arrested. Plus it’s sloppy. But then again, everything about you is sloppy and--”

Mercutio rams his fist into the side of Tybalt’s face and he reels to the right, clutching his jaw in shock. The hitman recovers quickly, Mercutio can give him that, and whips around, lightning fast to deliver a kick to the side of Mercutio’s ribs. He wheezes out a breath and grabs the front of Tybalt’s shirt to slam him into the wall. Tybalt’s vision goes black for half a second then he’s staring right at Mercutio’s bloody face.

“Take it back.”

“Fuck you.”

Mercutio smashes his forehead against Tybalt’s and the gunman sees stars for a second, his eyes sliding out of focus.

“Take it back.”

Tybalt’s lips crack into a vicious grin.

“You should know me well enough by now,” He says, blood dripping from his split lip.

Mercutio growls and pushes forward to slam his lips into Tybalt’s and the hitman’s eyes blow wide as the knife wielder backs off slowly and smiles coyly. Tybalt licks his lips, his eyes darting down to Mercutio’s mouth, red from Tybalt’s own blood.

“That all you got?” He says, and grabs Mercutio’s face to kiss him again.

Tybalt kisses feel like fire; like he’s trying to devour Mercutio until only ashes are left. Mercutio bites down on Tybalt’s lip, hard, relishing in the taste of blood, and fists one hand in the assassin’s curls and pulls hard, hearing a responding choked-off moan. Tybalt has both arms wrapped around Mercutio’s neck, and he’s already hiking up one leg to drape it over Mercutio’s hip and feel the knife wielder's hand immediately slither down the wrap his fingers around Tybalt’s thigh, gripping the flesh hard and using the hold to slam Tybalt further into the wall. They’re so close and they can feel each other’s skin buzzing as Mercutio pulls away to catch his breath and laugh.

“If only you’d taken the stick out of your ass sooner. We could’ve been fucking for months.”

“Shut the fuck up and kiss me again, shithead.”

Mercutio’s bloody face splits into a grin as Tybalt pulls his head forward to kiss him again, and he breaks away again.

“Can you get your other leg up?” He asks, his voice betraying how much he wants the answer to be yes.

“What do I look like, an invalid?” Tybalt shoots back, a nasty on his face. He locks his arms around Mercutio’s neck and hooks his other leg around Mercutio’s hips. Mercutio settles both hands on Tybalt’s ass and shifts him up to rest his legs around his waist. He grins again as Tybalt rolls his eyes.

“I always knew you were thick but I never thought you’d be this thick.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, I never said I didn’t like it. Your ass and thighs should be worshipped after your death.”

“You’re a moron.”

“I know.”

He presses Tybalt back into the wall and smiles into the kiss, feeling one of Tybalt’s hands curl into his hair, opening his mouth to taste the blood on Tybalt’s lips.

He pulls Tybalt away from the wall and walks over to dump him on the couch, pinning him down as soon as Tybalt tries to scramble up.

He rolls his hips into Tybalt’s, a shit-eating grin appearing on his face as he feels just how turned on the assassin is from this.

“I always knew you got off on our fights.”

“Are you gonna fuck me or just talk all night?”

“Technically, it’s morning.”

“You’re going to be sleeping on this couch if you don’t shut up and fuck me.”

 

They fuck on the couch, Mercutio pressing his lips to every part of Tybalt’s skin he can reach, biting and sucking marks onto the smooth skin he finds. Tybalt scratches lines onto Mercutio’s back, one hand fisting into his hair to tug when there’s not enough.

 

They sleep together, Mercutio wrapping his arms around Tybalt’s back as the assassin curls into his chest.

It’s the only time they don’t bicker.

 


End file.
